


goro akechi's shirt smells good

by frockbot



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fade to Black, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Scents & Smells, goro akechi's he can't keep getting away with it fashion, goro akechi's how does he keep pulling it off fashion, goro akechi's terrible fashion, gorocore, it's gotta be akechi's right, no spoilers except for royal, not necessarily strikers compliant, royal compliant, seriously where did that ugly polo come from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29320407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frockbot/pseuds/frockbot
Summary: Or: how Ren wound up in that black and white polo from Strikers. HAPPY BIRF, LACE.[Royal compliant; not Strikers compliant even though it takes place right before Strikers starts. No Strikers spoilers.]
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 26
Kudos: 177





	goro akechi's shirt smells good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustwallow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustwallow/gifts).



Ren was bored. 

He was sitting on Akechi’s couch, on cushions so misshapen that you had to practically crawl to get off of them. A spring prodded his lower back every time he moved. And he moved a lot: after all, he was _bored_ , and boredom meant he couldn’t sit still. 

He was staring at his phone, elbow propped on the arm of the couch and head tipped against his fist. Morgana was out—he’d shot Ren a meaningful look as he went, declaring, “I’ll give you two some _privacy_ ”—but Akechi apparently didn’t care. He sat beside Ren, craning forward to squint at his laptop’s screen. The only sound, other than the air conditioner whirring overhead, was his fingers rattling the keys. 

At first, Ren had hoped Akechi was just looking for a suitable stopping point; but after ten minutes of fevered typing, he’d eliminated that possibility. Next Ren had tried squirming pointedly, doing his best to jostle Akechi, but relented when Akechi fussed, “Stop that.” 

Now Ren was mulling. Maybe sulking. A bit. 

He glanced at his—thinking about Akechi as his _boyfriend_ still made a thrill skate up his spine. Akechi had let Ren braid his hair that morning, twisting the locks that usually framed his face across his scalp in a crown. He was even more beautiful like that, eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to cut, mouth soft enough to kiss. His jaw was tight—he clenched his teeth when he focused, something Ren was going to have to help him work on—and his pulse fluttered in his slender throat. Ren’s gaze lingered on it before dipping downward to his narrow shoulders, loose beneath a black polo with a high white collar. 

Akechi’s wardrobe was still a point of contention between them. Or, at least, a point of ribbing from Ren, and waspish replies from Akechi: “As if yours is any better.” “You think I’ve had time to go shopping?” “I like the way I look, and supposedly you do too, considering you can’t keep your hands off me.” 

All valid points, readily acknowledged. But the fact remained that Akechi’s clothes were embarrassing. Oh, he pulled them off—he could pull anything off, up to and including a full suit of armor, probably—but they made him look like a fifty-two year old man with three kids. 

Not that that had mattered (much) the day Akechi waltzed back into Ren’s life. 

After moving home, Ren had landed a job at the local department store. They had a coffee shop onsite, because of course they did, and Ren spent his afternoons and weekends there, blending iced drinks and drawing hearts in foam. It was okay. It was fine. 

One day, it became significantly better than fine. Ren’s manager was on break, so he was on his own, bouncing between register and bar while he chipped away at a substantial line of giggling teenagers. (He understood the irony of thinking about anybody as a _giggling teenager_ , considering he was only 18 himself, but being alone on bar in a busy shop will do that to you.) It was like whack-a-mole: the minute Ren finished one drink, another kid appeared, gawping at the menu for a few precious seconds while Ren’s smile turned glassy. Then they’d stammer an order, and Ren would take their money and whirl away to make this smoothie or that whippuccino. 

“Welcome to Frostbucks what can I get you,” he said for the hundredth time, sliding back to the counter. 

“Honey, I’m home,” said Akechi’s voice. 

Ren froze. 

His first thought was, _What_? 

His second thought was, _What the fuck_? 

His third thought was, _What is he wearing_? 

Because Akechi was standing there, smirking, arms crossed, in a red sweater vest over a white dress shirt with a collar practically up to his ears. He was wearing _cufflinks_. 

“You jackass,” Ren croaked, and grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him. 

The story was: of course Akechi wasn’t dead. Was Ren an idiot? Everyone knew that leaving the Metaverse healed the wounds you’d suffered within it. Escaping the Shadows was as simple as activating the Nav. Akechi had reappeared in the Diet Building, snuck out, and hidden until Shido was taken care of. He’d been embarrassed. He hadn’t known how to make things right with Ren. 

He’d given Sae what evidence he could, but she’d still needed a hero for her case, and Akechi was far from that. Thus Ren’s stint in jail and Akechi’s apparent disappearance. If he’d drawn any attention to himself during the trial, it would have muddied the waters. Threatened the story Sae was trying to tell. But she’d given him the go-ahead to contact Ren now, in April, and so here he was. 

There he was. 

Sae had cleared Akechi to reconnect with Ren and the Thieves, but he was still supposed to lie low otherwise, so he’d rented an upstairs flat in a tiny town about an hour away from Ren’s hometown. He was far from anonymous there—everyone he and Ren met on their walks called him _Goro_ with all the familiarity of a lifetime connection—but no one remembered or cared who he’d been before. To the farmers and shopkeepers, he was just Goro, the strange boy from Tokyo who kept to himself but was so very polite and helpful, if you ever needed a hand. 

Ren and Morgana had been here for two weeks, en route to a summer camping trip with the Thieves. Ren and Akechi had settled into a routine. Cooked together, wandered the woods and fields, fished, listened to music, watched videos on the spotty wifi. Traded stories about the months they’d been apart. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like no time at all. 

Tonight was Ren’s last night. And so far, Akechi had chosen to spend it _working_. 

Ren switched off his phone. 

“I’m bored,” he announced. 

Akechi hummed. “I’m almost finished.” 

Ren set his phone on the chabudai. “You said that half an hour ago.” 

“It hasn’t been that long.” 

“It has too. Morgana’s coming back eventually, you know.” 

“Some of us,” Akechi said, without looking away from the screen, “don’t get a summer vacation.” 

Sae was still trying to track down the remnants of the Conspiracy, and she’d enlisted Akechi’s help in doing so. It was important work. Ren didn’t care right now. 

“Can’t you take a break?” Ren said, scooting closer, pressing their shoulders together. Akechi’s bare arm was very warm against his own. “Just for tonight. It’s my last night here.” 

“I am well aware of that,” Akechi said. His hands didn’t falter, but his voice dipped fractionally lower. “I told you, I’m almost finished.” 

Fine. Ren could play this game. Sighing theatrically, he flopped backward into Akechi’s lap. 

Akechi jumped. “What are you _doing_?” 

“If you won’t entertain me,” Ren said, wriggling to get comfortable, grinning at the blush creeping up Akechi’s neck, “then I’ll just have to take a nap.” 

“On _top_ of me?” 

“Yep.” Closing his eyes meant blocking out the image of Akechi gaping down at him, but Ren did it anyway. “Good night.” 

“You are insufferable,” Akechi grumbled. 

Ren expected Akechi to try to push him off, which would lead to a scuffle, which Ren could twist to his own ends. But Akechi didn’t. Instead, after a moment, he sighed, and then Ren heard his keyboard clattering again. 

Dick. 

Except: Akechi’s lap didn’t feel so bad. Actually, it was kind of nice. Soft, but firm. Like a really sturdy, really warm pillow. In fact Ren was completely surrounded by warmth, from Akechi’s legs beneath him to Akechi’s stomach against his ear to Akechi’s arms extended over his head. It was... 

Ren resurfaced slowly. His head had slumped to one side and his nose was pressed into a warm, yielding surface, steadily rising and falling. His arms and legs were leaden, his eyelids heavy, his skin blanketed all over in the lulling heat of ebbing sleep. 

And— 

Ren tried to stay perfectly still, to modulate his breathing so Akechi wouldn’t realize he was awake. Akechi’s palm was resting on Ren’s scalp, his fingers smoothing through Ren’s hair, nails occasionally scritching across the sensitive skin beneath. Tingles rippled outward from the point of contact, making Ren’s lungs hitch even as they deepened the warmth weighing down on him. 

Ren creaked one eye open and found himself looking at blackness. After a tense second, his brain supplied an explanation: his face was turned toward Akechi’s stomach, and he was looking at the rough black fabric of Akechi’s polo shirt. 

Tilting his head back, he met Akechi’s gaze bright as molten glass, pooling liquid heat in Ren’s core. 

“I’m finished,” Akechi murmured. He hadn’t stopped stroking Ren’s hair. 

“Hmm,” Ren replied. His lips vibrated against Akechi’s abdomen, which quivered in turn. 

Akechi opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

Ren lifted one heavy hand to grasp the hem of Akechi’s shirt. He pushed it up, letting his thumb drag across Akechi’s searing skin, to expose a panel of smooth, gently rounded flesh, indented at the center by Akechi’s belly button. Ren held Akechi’s gaze, watching his eyelashes flutter, and then looked at his stomach, rising and falling to match his rapid breathing. 

“Ren,” Akechi managed. “If you—” 

Ren kissed his abdomen. Akechi broke off on a pained, animal sound. Ren did it again, and again, mapping the expanse of skin, rubbing the velvety surface with his cheek and testing its depth with lips and teeth. The hand in his hair tightened, relaxed, tightened again; the other one settled on Ren’s shoulder and fisted in his shirt. Akechi’s breath came in wet clicks, spilling into a ragged moan when Ren finally unfurled his tongue to lick Akechi’s shuddering belly button. 

“ _Ren_ ,” Akechi repeated. Then he moaned again, twisting both into and away from him, head falling back against the couch as Ren sealed his lips over Akechi’s belly button and sucked. “Ren, God, Ren—if you don’t—” 

“Mmmm,” Ren purred, trailing a few more kisses to the bunched hem of Akechi’s polo. There he stopped, glancing up, and felt his face flush at the sight of Akechi’s burning cheeks, his overbright eyes, his bottom lip swollen from being bitten. “Bedroom?” 

Akechi’s jaw dropped. He wheezed, locked his hand around the back of Ren’s neck, croaked, “Are you _sure_ —?” 

“Yes,” Ren said. He’d never been so sure of anything. “Goro. Yes.” 

Groaning, Akechi dragged Ren into a proper kiss. 

*** 

The thing Ren was going to miss most was Akechi’s _smell_. 

Akechi didn’t smell like anything in particular. After he drank coffee, he smelled a little like it, or like whatever food he’d recently eaten. His shampoo and body wash were unscented—better for your hair and skin, he claimed—and his laundry detergent simply seemed clean. So when Ren snuggled into Akechi's side, when he buried his face in Akechi’s sheets, when he walked into Akechi’s flat at the end of a long day, he smelled _Akechi_. No more, no less. 

In an hour, he wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. 

Ren’s heart was a stone in his chest even as his stomach leapfrogged from his gut to his ribs. He wanted to see his friends, and they’d been planning this trip almost since he’d left, but he wished Akechi could come with them. Wished Akechi _would_ come with them. But Sae had said it might be dangerous for him to show his face in Tokyo, and Akechi didn’t like the sound of camping anyway, so... 

“I wonder how Ann’s doing,” Morgana sighed. He was sprawled on top of Akechi’s dresser, tail swishing, while Ren packed his clothes. “I bet she’s lovelier than ever.” 

“You know how she's doing. We’ve video chatted with her ten times.” 

“Video’s not the same! You can’t feel someone’s _presence_ on video.” Morgana sighed again, wistfully. “Lady Ann...she has this _aura_ around her, you know? This _meowjesty_.” 

Ren’s throat constricted. Luckily, Morgana didn’t seem to mind that Ren didn’t answer. Didn’t notice when Ren dragged his wrist across his eyes. 

Stupid. He was being stupid. He was going to have a great time with the Thieves, and Akechi would be on his phone the whole time, a call or text away. 

But, like Morgana said, it wasn’t the same. 

Ren’s gaze alighted on the bundle of clothes at the foot of the bed. In every other part of the flat, Akechi was fastidiously clean, climbing out of his skin whenever he saw a stray crumb or dirty plate. But the bedroom was a jungle of unpaired socks, rumpled bedsheets, and discarded clothes. Including Akechi’s polo from the night before. 

Ren picked it up, shook it out, studied it. The black fabric would hide (most) cat hair. If he unbuttoned the collar—which he did so now, as far down as it would go—it looked a little more age-appropriate. The white design over the left breast reminded him, with a strange pang, of Shujin, ordinarily an unpleasant memory but apparently nostalgic now, standing in Akechi’s bedroom ogling his things. 

And—Ren brought it to his face, inhaled—it smelled _just_ like Akechi. Strong and spicy and real. 

Ren took off his shirt, stuffed it under Akechi’s pillow, and put the polo on instead. 

“Ready to go?” said Akechi, from the doorway. 

Ren opened his bag wide for Morgana, hoisted it to his shoulder, turned. “Yep.” 

Akechi blinked, looked Ren up and down, raised his eyebrows. “That’s my shirt.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re stealing my shirt?” 

“I’m borrowing your shirt,” Ren said, dusting it off. “It looks good, right?” 

“It does,” Akechi admitted, grudgingly. “I thought you hated my clothes.” 

“I do. Most of them.” Ren crossed the room, hooked his fingers beneath Akechi’s chin, and kissed him. Strong, spicy, real. Warm. “Come on. I’ll miss my bus.” 

They talked on the way to the bus stop, first about the weather—hot, muggy, buggy—and then Ren’s diet and finally Akechi’s orders to be careful, be careful, be careful. Don’t let Sakamoto drive. Don’t eat anything Kitagawa cooks. Stay together on trails and tie your food up high, out of reach of bears. (There wouldn’t be any bears where they were going.) Text him. Call him. Let him know that Ren got everywhere safely. 

Ren’s heart ached. 

A low rumbling in the distance alerted them that the bus was coming. They looked at each other. 

“Have fun,” Akechi said. His voice was level, his expression neutral, but he’d clenched his hands into fists. 

The lump in Ren’s throat dissolved. He threw his arms around Akechi, clutching him close, not caring that Morgana squawked in protest. Akechi hugged him back so tight that he would’ve crushed the wind from Ren’s lungs if there was any left in them at all. 

“I love you,” Ren mumbled. Akechi stiffened. “You don’t have to say it back. I just—” 

Akechi dug his nails into Ren’s ribs. “I love you too.” 

Tears soaked hot into Akechi’s shirt when Ren closed his eyes. 

Over Ren’s shoulder, through a blur that Akechi would not admit was tears, Akechi watched the bus approach. Only once he could see the driver through the windshield did he gently disentangle himself and step back. Ren gave him a look of utter, puffy-eyed devastation that resounded gonglike in Akechi’s ribs. 

“Be well,” Akechi said. The bus creaked to a halt beside them. “Be safe.” 

“I’ll see you soon,” Ren said, like a vow. 

“Yes,” Akechi said. 

Ren lifted his chin, straightened his spine, drew his shoulders back. Morgana poked his head out of the bag. 

“Bye, Akechi,” he said, narrowing his eyes with distinctly feline affection. 

“Goodbye, Morgana.” 

The bus door opened with a gastric hiss. Ren turned on his heel, jerky and clipped, and disappeared up the steps. Akechi watched the door close, heard the engine rev, pivoted slowly to watch the bus trundle off toward the train station that would take Ren to Tokyo, and to the Thieves. 

Eventually he coughed, and sniffed—his nose was running; he hoped he wasn’t developing a pollen allergy—and headed home. His throat and chest were curiously tight, his head filled with fog. Definitely some kind of allergy. 

By the time he tromped back up the stairs to his flat, his arms felt filled with lead, and his spine bowed under a tremendous weight. Maybe he was sick. That would figure. Ren had probably brought some ungodly disease with him from his hometown, and now Akechi had caught it and would suffer in bed for the next week. 

_Bed_ sounded rather nice, actually. Akechi trudged into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and flopped onto the mattress. 

He lay on his stomach for a while, head empty. Tracked the path of the shadows on the wall. Listened to the cicadas chirring outside. 

Presently he rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, noticed a cobweb in the corner. No: a spiderweb. The spider sat fat and happy within it. Fine. As long as it didn’t come down from there, it could live. 

Akechi’s eyelids were drooping. He scooted over, settled onto his pillow, tucked his hand beneath it— 

—and pulled out Ren’s shirt: the cream-colored one he liked to wear under his black blazer. 

[CHATLOG. Akechi to Ren, 7/24/XX, 3:32PM] 

**Akechi** You left your shirt here. 

**Ren** I know. 😊 It’s for you. 

**Akechi** ?? For me?   
**Akechi** Oh, I see. This is how you plan to “fix” my wardrobe? 

**Ren** No, dummy. It’s for when you miss me. 

**Akechi** I don’t follow. 

**Ren** I stole your shirt because it smelled like you. It’s only fair for you to have something that smells like me. 

**Akechi** I thought you “borrowed” my shirt. 

**Ren** Same thing. 

Akechi let his arm flop to the side. Frowned at Ren’s shirt. 

Hesitantly, lifted it to his nose and breathed in. 

Coconut from Ren’s shampoo; pomegranate from his body wash. The clean, mild scent of his deodorant, and the lingering citrus bite of the detergent he’d used at home. And underlying all of that, achingly familiar now that Akechi had spent so much time buried in the crook of Ren’s neck or the soft spot beneath his ear or, last night, the hollow of his thighs: the dark, heady musk of Ren himself, distinctive from anything else Akechi had ever smelled. Uniquely, entirely his. 

If Akechi could help it, they would never be permanently separated. But even if they were, Akechi would always remember that smell. 

Akechi spread the shirt across his pillow, rolled onto his side, shut his eyes. If he focused only on what his nose was telling him, he could almost imagine that Ren was still here. Snuggled up beside him, foreheads touching, fingers tangled in each other’s hair. 

Akechi would have to remember to thank him later. 


End file.
